Deadeye
by OccasionallyIWriteStuff
Summary: McCree catches up with and teaches an important lesson on dueling to the last remaining member of his former gang the Deadlocks: Billy Elliot in a small town in the Middle of Nowhere Nevada. OneShot.


_A/N: Small gore warning towards the end, nothing graphically described but it might be enough to be bothersome. Thanks for clicking._

* * *

McCree eyed the front of the bar. It was a small building made out of adobe, clay, and probably held together by the hopes and dreams of its owner given the numerous cracks and flaws in the exterior. Every town needed a bar and Vigota, Nevada was no exception, though McCree wasn't expecting much considering the town couldn't hold more than five hundred people total.

How many years had passed since he'd last been here? McCree couldn't remember. His time with Overwatch was distorted and strange, almost like a dream that sat at the edge of his memory. Half of it was spent in the murk of denial, that he was being forced to work for them against his will when he actually could have chosen a cell at any point during his stay. And the other half were some of the best years of his life as he pulled himself from the shadows he had nearly drowned in and realized what good he could do for the world. That he could right wrongs one person at a time. That he could bring justice, one bullet at a time.

McCree shook his head, pushing the thoughts away. It had been different with Overwatch to point him in the right direction, but since it had fallen a few months back, his only mission had been to try and correct his past mistakes. To hunt down his former gang mates and give them what they deserved. Five of them were already dead by the time he'd started looking; killed in various skirmishes and accidents during the time that McCree had spent with Overwatch. Three had been captured in the sting that got him and were rotting in the darkest holes of the American prison system. McCree had personally killed another three since his hunt began in March. And now the last member of the Deadlock gang was, according to his intel, sitting in the Infierno Bar just in front of him. McCree tapped the cannon at his waist thoughtfully and shifted his prosthetic arm, the metal cool under his poncho despite the burning heat of the sun overhead.

The debt left by his past was about to be paid.

He took a step forward and pushed the door open, quickly moving inside but pulling his hat down to cover his face. The room smelled strongly of old alcohol but lacked the noise and sweat that normally accompanied the establishment. Given that it was just past eleven, McCree wasn't surprised that the room was mostly empty. It was designed to look like one of those old taverns that every western movie seemed to have. All wood, a piano in the back, and a poker table in one of the corners.

It looked fairly authentic, but the gentle hum of the electricity in the walls and _whirring_ of the air conditioning brought any immersion to a halt. No business could survive without being fully tech integrated in this day and age. Regardless of the slight disappointment, McCree appreciated the effort the owner had put forth and dragged his eyes through the room carefully. Eleven people were in the bar total. One was passed out in a chair in the furthest corner from the door. The other ten had pulled seats up to a table that was much too small and were all talking loudly with each other. Over the noise of conversation, McCree could barely hear the voice of his target: Billy Elliot.

McCree walked over to the bar, intensely aware of the _jingle_ of his stirrups and the way his shoes _thudded_ heavily against the wooden floor. He heard the noise of the group lower and eventually cease as he pulled the stool away from the bar and sat on it, the gang obviously having noticed him. The air suddenly turned thick with tension and silence as McCree felt eyes boring into his back. Each second felt like an eternity and McCree felt his human hand twitch towards his revolver before a woman came around a corner at the edge of the bar. She smiled, cutting the tension like a knife with her presence alone. She looked Hispanic, likely middle aged, trying to get by any way she could.

"Anything I can get for you sir?" She spoke with a thick accent and McCree couldn't help but think of his time at Overwatch and how everyone had spoken with at least some sort of accent. Besides himself of course.

"I'll take a glassa bourbon if you don't mind ma'am." The woman nodded and grabbed a glass off the shelf behind her before walking to the other side of the bar and pulling a bottle free. McCree could feel the eyes of gang on his back and he could tell their conversation hadn't resumed. They seemed to be waiting for something. No doubt hearing him had sparked something in Billy, but he had never been a very smart boy so McCree wouldn't have been surprised if Billy couldn't nail him. Nothing wrong with some old fashioned western tension between former friends though.

The woman returned from the other end of the bar and put the glass of bourbon down in front of him, the auburn liquid nearly filling the glass. A bit unusual for a local bar to be that generous, but McCree wasn't about to complain. With a smile he pulled his wallet out and slid a twenty across the counter. "Keep the change, ma'am."

A look of surprise crossed her face, likely at seeing paper money and his generosity, but she simply nodded her thanks before placing the bill in her jean pocket. McCree watched as the woman looked between the group behind him and himself before shifting uncomfortably and heading back around the corner she'd come from. Clearly she wanted nothing to do with whatever trouble had just walked into her bar.

"You here often?" McCree raised the bourbon to his lips and took a sip, speaking loud enough to be clear he was addressing the group. The alcohol burned as it splashed across his tongue and down his throat, but overall was smoother than he'd been expecting. The gentle flavor of wood came from the heat of the alcohol as the warmth began to settle in his belly. McCree couldn't help but give a satisfied nod in spite of the situation.

Someone stood up from their seat, the chair screeching across the wooden floors, "Depends what'chu mean by," there was a pause and McCree could sense the finger quotes even without looking, " _'ere._ " The voice had been nasally and whiny and perfectly identifiable. It belonged to Billy.

McCree gave a halfhearted chuckle. Billy had been the errand boy back when McCree had been on the wrong side of the law. Nothing more than the coffee boy who occasionally shot gang members who were a bit too rowdy. McCree waved his glass around in a vague gesture before taking another sip, "This town, this bar. Just tryin' to make conversation, friend."

There was a rustle as the group shifted. "We ain't your _friend_." Billy's footsteps sounded across the wooden floor and McCree could tell he wasn't more than a few steps away now. "You'd best get lost before that cash you're flashin' gets chu' hurt. Some unsavory types 'round these parts, _pal_."

Any veil the threat might have possessed faded in an instant as the group seemed to shift and chuckle quietly to itself as the screech of chairs scraping against the floor sounded again. McCree didn't know how many had stood up, but the time for vague bullshit was over. With a sigh, McCree put his glass on the table and rolled his neck before stepping away from the bar and lifting the brim of his hat, catching Billy's eyes in the process; "That any way to talk to an old friend, Billy?"

Whispers shot through the group and McCree watched Billy blanch and shift his weight around uncomfortably. "Jesse?"

McCree nodded before lowering his hand to hover above the gun at his hip, the silent threat caught by the group as they all mirrored the action. All of them were sporting some version or another of those plasma pistols that Overwatch had tried to make him use. Sure they might be able to hold thirty shots, but they couldn't dish out punishment like six slugs of hot lead could and really what was the point of a gun if it couldn't make a mess of someone's skull in one shot?

"Thought you's was dead." Billy took a cautious step back, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The rest of the gang followed suit as Billy continued, "That Overwatch had gotten'chu in the sting with Doc an' Hardin an' the others."

McCree slid his eyes across the gang, taking in each of the members. The nine that he didn't recognize looked green. None of them could have been a day older than twenty-three and a few looked fresh enough to still have their driving permits. There were four women and five men amongst the people McCree couldn't identify. Two of the men already had their hands on the grips of their guns instead of keeping a few inches of warning. Cheaters.

"Overwatch did get me, did me some good being with them folk. But I'ma 'fraid that your sins are back to haunt you Billy." McCree took a step forward and the entire group shifted back in retreat.

"I-I don't know whatchu talk-"

"I know it was you, Billy." McCree interrupted. "You sold us out so you could move up the ranks." If it was possible, Billy seemed to go even whiter at the accusation and turned to the man behind his right shoulder for support. But he didn't find any there as the man's face was a mixture of shock and awe, eyes locked on McCree.

"But I ain't here just for revenge, Billy." McCree shifted his eyes over the group again. "I hear that the Deadlocks were involved in the death of a little girl not more than a week ago. Now I can't prove anyone here besides Billy was involved, so if you turn tail now, I won't have to leave pieces of you lying around for the undertaker to clean up." McCree's voice was an edge hard enough to break skin and draw blood. "This is your chance for mercy, kids."

Eyes shifted around the group and McCree noticed that a few looked towards the ground, revealing their guilt. But they weren't thinking about that. Even if they were young, they weren't dumb. Ten against one put their odds in a pretty good place. But there was no doubt that the legend of McCree, fastest draw in the American West, had reached their ears at one point or another. Even if McCree managed to get off three shots before he was put down, that meant three of them would be dead and taking a one in three gamble with your life wasn't something any of them looked ready to do.

Billy licked his lips, "Think you're fast enough, Jesse?" Billy looked over his shoulder and whispered something that McCree couldn't hear. The group shifted slightly and a few of the nervous faces gained a bit of confidence as cruel smiles began to spread across a few different mouths.

McCree shifted his human hand and tapped his belt buckle, the bold proclamation of _BAMF_ raised in the metal for all to see. "I think you need to reconsider whatever you're thinking 'fore you get hurt, Billy."

"Ten to one odds and you think we'll be the ones hurtin'?" Billy chuckled and the group joined him. "I think you bin spendin' too much time in the sun, Jesse." Billy grabbed the handle of his plasma pistol fully, his posture visibly changing.

"Cause," McCree shifted his metal arm so that the flashbangs at his hip were no longer hidden by his poncho. "If you don't we'll all be blown sky high before you realize what's happened."

The tone shifted in the space of a breath and McCree drew his pistol, aiming at Billy and thumbing the hammer back in one fluid motion as all the gang members drew theirs on him.

McCree locked eyes with Billy as his former gang mate whispered, "You wouldn't." Fear.

McCree moved his metal hand so that it was rubbing the top of the flashbang. "Big words from a little man. You ain't seen nothing Billy, and if you think that a little grenade is gunna put an Overwatch agent in the dirt, then you're even dumber than you look."

"I'll put you in the ground McCree I-"

"I call for a Deadlock Duel." McCree dared a look down at the watch on his metal arm before snapping his head back up. "Ten minutes, outside on the road, any of you against me."

Tense silence filled the air between them. Heavy with the anticipation of what Billy would say. If he accepted, everyone knew that at least someone would be on the receiving end of McCree's revolver and no one was truly willing to take that risk. Could be any of them for all they knew, even if Billy was the only one who'd be called out.

And if Billy refused, then they'd be in for a party. Deadlock rules, older than even McCree's membership stated that a pistol duel had to be accepted or the denier's position was forfeit to the challenger. McCree wasn't about to lead the Deadlocks again and he could only assume everyone knew that. Billy wasn't an honorable person and McCree couldn't help the bead of sweat that formed and began rolling down his forehead. He was good, but if Billy refused, then it would be a free-for-all. Ten people was too many for even McCree, especially with no backup. No one was faster than him on the draw; but keeping track of any more than four people at once, if he even survived the initial shootout, would be impossible. McCree needed a fair duel.

"Fine. Ten minutes." Billy turned without waiting for acknowledgment and stepped towards the exit, shoving the door open violently and exiting into the baking desert.

Before the whole group could follow, McCree called out, "If you don't show up, you won't end up splattered 'cross the road. I'm only here for Billy today." A few of the gang members paused and shot their eyes over their shoulders towards McCree who only offered a tip of the hat and pat on his hip in return. He wasn't making a threat. He was making a promise.

McCree turned once the last of the gang members had filed out and caught the eyes of bar woman. Her hand was hovering millimeters above her phone and McCree shook his head. "Don't call the cops 'till I walk out those doors in ten minutes ma'am." McCree took his seat at the bar. "I don't want to make more'a mess than I already am."

The woman nodded her head, eyes wide with awe. McCree tipped his hat in thanks and took another sip of his drink before looking at his watch. The short hand was edging to the twelve, and the long hand was ticking closer and closer to the ten.

He looked back at the woman, pulling a cigar from a pouch at his waist.

"You mind if I smoke ma'am?"

* * *

McCree stepped onto the hot pavement and looked up the road as he puffed on his cigar. Four of the Deadlocks were absent from the lineup, leaving six about fifty feet up the road. The perfect number. McCree nodded to the group and sauntered towards them until he wasn't more than twenty feet away, anxiety rolling through his body and sharpening him.

"Ready to die, McCree?"

Billy's voice wavered through the insult, but McCree still felt a spark of electricity shoot down his spine. It was the same spark that he got before every duel. The thrill of the next seconds being his last and the bitterness of what that might mean for him.

"Ain't no better time to die than in the midday sun, Billy"

McCree didn't fear death, hell, he'd been halfway through the door before Angela had brought him back more than a few times. He feared what it would be like to live in a world where the law could be disregarded so flippantly with no one around to do anything about it. McCree had hurt a lot of people before Overwatch and the Deadlocks were a blight on his past. They were the debt that he owed society for his time on Earth.

And he was about to pay that debt back.

Church bells rang somewhere in the distance and McCree lowered his stance and hand so that it was inches above the butt of his gun; moving his metal hand so that the poncho draped over it would cover his vitals. The first ring had been a surprise, but by the second, the Deadlocks had all lowered into their stances and a mutual understanding was reached between the seven of them without a single word being spoken. The twelfth ring was the signal for draw.

Three.

McCree closed his eyes and they world seemed to fall away from him. His senses heightened and everything suddenly seemed sharper. The wood flavor of the bourbon he'd just finished flicked at the back of his mouth. The barrel had been oak and the drink aged for at least ten years. But the flavor was softer than it should be. Normally, it burned at his tongue and tore at his focus. Maybe it was just a high quality drink, but McCree knew better. The bourbon had been cut with water, diluted just enough for it still taste normal but weak enough that the bartender was probably saving a lot of money. Smart woman.

Cigar smoke twisted around his nose and smelled bitterly of the numerous chemicals used in the manufacturing, the mixture nearly overwhelming in its pungency. It muddled his mind for a second before clearing away like a fog as he began to pick out the subtleties and felt the relief it brought. It was like a bitter campfire in his mouth and tasted exactly like how it smelled. A strange mix of chemicals, paper, and tobacco that made little sense to him but somehow managed to be a perfect blend of them all.

McCree felt his body aching with age despite the fact that he was barely over thirty-three. He felt the salt in the beads of sweat dripping down his forehead and the way his metal arm was fused to his shoulder. He felt the way the sand from the nearby desert was scratching at his face. He felt the heat of the asphalt rising from the ground and warming him beyond what the sun alone could accomplish. So many sensations whipped through his mind that it took the weight of his Peacemaker at his hip, heavy and constant, to ground him. It was him and her. Them against the world. Nothing could stand against them.

Six.

McCree opened his eyes and the world flared to life. He could track individual grains of sand as they blew across the road and could see the way each of the Deadlocks moved. The one on the far right was tense and tight. He was going to die and he knew it. He was a dead man living on borrowed time.

Two women were next in line and they both seemed more comfortable if only in the sense that they weren't actively aware of how little time they had left. Maybe they'd drawn straws and figured McCree'd only get one. Billy should know better than that. Maybe Billy hadn't told them that McCree'd killed more than thirty people for the Deadlocks, all of them in duels just like this. Not to mention ten high ranking Deadlock duelists when McCree had been moving up the ranks. Sometimes the duels had more people on that side, and other times there were more people on his side, but it always came down to McCree, dead men, and his Peacekeeper.

Two men followed in the chain and they looked almost comfortable. Expectant, and utterly unconcerned with their draw in the lot. No way that a single man could gun down four or five people before he was blown away. That would be absurd. If McCree didn't know better and hadn't done worse, he might have thought the same thing.

And Billy. He was on edge worse than Mr. Far Right was. He was last in line, so he had the best chance of surviving but McCree'd seen that face on a hundred men before. It was the face of desperation at a situation that was so far gone that there was no way to salvage it. The face of a man who was trying so hard not to fall apart that his stitching was vibrating out of the holes it went through.

McCree had never seen himself before a duel, but no one had been shy of telling him that it wasn't like anything they'd ever seen before. He'd heard that he was still as a statue before the draw and faster than a train afterwards. That he was both invisible, unable to be focused on before the draw and so concrete when the time came that not even bullets would shake him. That he existed in that moment, somewhere between life and death and that he was harbinger of both simply by who he chose to aim at. McCree didn't believe a damn word of what anyone had told him, but Billy was in for a reckoning and he damn well knew that McCree was the one who was going to bring it.

Ten.

The itch started low at first. A subtle smolder in his thumb that could be pushed away if he ignored it. But he didn't. He focused and let it burn, the itch growing. It turned into a small flame, the heat licking his other fingertips and threatening action on their own if he didn't control them. But the flame caught on the tinder of his palm and turned to a fire as his entire hand ignited urging it millimeters closer to his gun. The fire raged as it egged him to draw and shoot. To kill them for their crimes like the dogs they were. They didn't deserve a duel and the honor of a respectful death. If McCree pulled right now, he'd kill them all in an instant.

Eleven.

McCree pushed the thoughts away as the firestorm raged up his arm and burned with the ache of anticipation. He wasn't Reyes. He wasn't an animal waiting to be let off its leash. He wasn't an angel sent from God to bring them to Justice. McCree was just another man in the world trying to make his way. And there was nothing he'd rather be doing than dispensing hot lead to those who needed it most.

His shoulder ignited as the fire reached a fever pitch a fraction of a second before the final bell rang and the words whispered free from his mouth:

" _It's hiiiiggh noon."_

Twelve.

"DRAW!"

Nine shots were fired, but McCree only heard the six claps of thunder that roared from his side as the fire coursed through his gun and seemed to burst forth from the barrel as if it was the mouth of a dragon.

Time didn't stop. He didn't see the bullets cut through the air. The pain in his hand from his own revolver was immediate and intense, almost matching the burn of the pain that began seeping through his ribs as something began melting its way through. A gasp escaped his mouth and McCree nearly dropped his eyes to look at where he'd been hit, but he didn't.

McCree watched as the six Deadlocks dropped to the pavement, three of them missing parts of their skulls, the other three sporting holes where their hearts had been. Without moving his eyes, McCree spun his gun on his finger and reloaded, keeping the weapon at his hip, ready to fire. Just in case.

Unsurprisingly, none of the gang members rose to challenge him. McCree began walking towards them as he holstered his gun and the raw adrenaline began to filter out of his system. He'd been hit, that much was for sure, but none of the shots were lethal. More annoying than anything really. One had grazed his left arm, the plasma bolt having melted the metal on his forearm. It wasn't likely that it had caused any issues in terms of functionality, but McCree made a mental note to run a diagnostic later before fully patching it.

Another plasma bolt had gone through his poncho, likely missing his body by inches thanks to his stance given that his poncho was sporting two new holes directly across from each other.

But the last one, that one was a decent shot. It had caught him on his right side, just beneath his chest. The plasma had burned its way through his armor and skin, likely cooling by the time it reached his bones, but McCree would have to check to make sure. The pain was sharp, almost needle-like if the needle had a tip as thick as a pencil in diameter. If whoever had gotten him hadn't been using a plasma weapon, McCree would likely be dead. His revolver would have blown a hole large enough to collapse a lung and rupture a few organs at least. But that's what they got for using peashooters to try put a legend in the dirt.

McCree stopped over to the bodies, a cloud of white cigar smoke trailing out of his mouth. Death wasn't pretty like books said it was. The kids had gone screaming into hell fast and hard and it was written all over the way they lay in the dirt. What was left of Billy's face was twisted into an angry grimace of something McCree couldn't identify. It couldn't have been of pain. Death would have come too fast for that.

He stood there for a few moments, thinking on how he could have been one of those kids. How he could have been Billy had he continued down the path he'd been on. How Overwatch had saved him by offering him a job instead of letting him rot like his mates. How the only real reason that he was on the right side of the gun was because he was the one who knew how to shoot it best.

McCree tapped the ash off the end of his cigar and turned back towards the Infierno. He raised his hand and waved to the bar woman who was staring, stunned, in the doorway with her phone pressed against the side of her face.

"Have a nice day ma'am. Thanks for your c'operation."

McCree turned and began walking down the street as he heard the woman begin talking quickly into the phone. His motorcycle was parked about a block up and since he couldn't hear the sirens yet, he doubted that he'd be in trouble by the time he reached it.

And once he got there…

Well, wherever justice was needed, that's where McCree would be.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks for reading. Drop a favorite if you liked it an a review if you want to let me know why you did or how I could improve._


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